PODCAST Soraya: Where is our pain mother

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The song, Where Is Our Pain Mother was originally sung in Kurdish, with the lyrics written and later translated by Soraya Fallah, who also performs the vocals. The electronic music was composed by Omid Rafizadeh.

In this piece, Soraya speaks about the atrocities and injustices her people—the Kurds—have endured. Yet, she illustrates the fear experienced by many who are unable to speak the truth. Out of this fear, she either avoids mentioning these events directly or employs sarcasm and irony. It is as if she is pretending these events never happened, while the reader or listener clearly understands the painful truth. Through this contrast, the song conveys the deep suffering of her nation beneath a surface of denial.

The lyrics take the form of a letter to her mother, who lives 14,000 kilometers away.

Soraya never sent this letter to her mother, fearing it might put her in danger, even in her old age. Instead, she transformed it into a song of resistance—a piece that is not only her voice, but also the collective voice of a grieving nation. As an act of resistance against all forms of injustice and genocide, she dedicated the song to stand against genocide itself.

Dr. Soraya Fallah is a researcher and activist. She is deeply concerned about the rights of people and uses her voice—through writing, advocacy, and other forms of expression—to unveil injustice, amplify silenced stories, and call for equity and human dignity. You can listen to the song here.

Following our conversation.

 

You can listen to the song here:

 

Letter to Mother

My dear mother,
I think only of myself.
Where should I place the pain of happiness and joy?

All the news is bright, everyone is well.
All the photos gleam with beauty.

No images of the fallen (refers to the fact that almost every day people are hanged or killed, and images are revealed by local people on the internet).
No whispers of the tortured.
No broken maps (refers to the Kurdish map that is divided and broken by the borders of different countries in the Middle East).
No shredded documents (refers to all evidence of killings, executions, torture, and people’s memoirs—as well as books that were banned).

No shadows of the fallen,
No traces of the tortured.
No torn maps,
No shredded documents.

My dear mother,
Seriously—where is our pain?
We have no sorrow at all—
As if we never knew worry or fear (using the word “we” refers to a collective people and the grief of a community. And “not having fear” refers to Soraya’s nation being wrongfully encouraged that they should not give meaning to grief, but instead sacrifice and glorify martyrs for other nations, as if they must not fear dying or worry).

No shadows of the fallen,
No traces of the tortured.
No torn maps,
No shredded documents.

You know better than I:
Long ago, the head of Pishewa Ghazi was never hanged (she uses the name of Pishewa Ghazi as a symbol of a leader who was executed by hanging for playing a significant role in Kurdish history).
The massacre of our youth never happened (she refers to the massacre of Kurdish young people and the collective grief imposed by the regimes under which they live).
The bodies of our young girls were never scarred (refers to young underage girls who were tortured and raped for being part of the movement for rights).

Highlight of my Day "The First Hour That Felt Like a Beginning, Hilda and I"

 

Highlight of my Day "The First Hour That Felt Like a Beginning, Hilda and I"

Today I had my first long conversation with my niece, Hilda. For over an hour on a WhatsApp video call, we talked like old friends, moving between small stories and big thoughts. She is thirteen or fourteen, that age when many teenagers rush through words, but Hilda was different. She was calm, content, and present, as if she had all the time in the world.

Before this session, I worked on a "digital time reduction guide for teens" in both English and Farsi for her. I reminded her that this table is not an obligation, but a lifestyle, something to add on top of what she already knows and does. She seemed excited about following it, as if she had found another tool to help her live with intention.

At one point, she shared her latest adventure, learning about snakes. She described their lives in nature, their patterns, their hidden beauty. Then, she told me about a particular kind that lives in the Sahara, its eyes so mesmerizing you could almost forget it might be dangerous. Her words stayed with me. Sometimes, the most beautiful things in life carry risks we do not immediately see.

We also spoke about what helps me when life feels heavy. I told her I write journal entries without worrying about big words, neat handwriting, or writing for anyone but myself. I shared that I blog casually in my liminal space, my corner for thoughts and reflections. I also told her about my Let-It-Go Jar, where I write down worries, fold them up, and drop them in, symbolically releasing them. We spoke about breaking big, overwhelming tasks into smaller steps so they feel like pebbles instead of boulders. I even showed her a simple breathing trick I use when my mind is crowded, breathing in for four seconds, holding it for seven, and breathing out slowly for eight, like letting the air carry away everything unnecessary.

At one point, I told her that I wished she were here so we could spend time together in nature, share clothes, and enjoy the simple fun of being aunt and niece in the same place. The thought made both of us smile. We have some mutuality, she has a gift of love to learn. Not all teens are like that. There is a power in that love that can make life's journey much easier, I told Hilda.

Hilda spoke fluent Kurdish, knew Farsi perfectly, and was learning English as well as the scientific language of nature, biology. She loves studying behaviors among species, as if the living world is her library. She has a long, bright life ahead of her. I was thrilled we connected. She is beautiful, deeply lovable, and wise beyond her years.

I learned from her, and I told her I would go and read more about snakes. I am curious.

Reflection

Meeting Hilda reminded me that curiosity is a powerful force, but so is the way we carry our emotions. Her fascination with snakes in the desert felt like a metaphor. In life, beauty and danger often live side by side, and the wisdom lies in recognizing both.

Our talk showed me she already has the heart of a researcher and the mind of a philosopher. I want her to know that tending to one's inner life is just as important as exploring the outer one. Tools like journaling freely, using a Let-It-Go Jar, breaking big tasks into smaller, manageable steps, and pausing to breathe deeply can make space for both curiosity and calm.

In the same way she studies nature with patience, I hope she will examine her thoughts and feelings, seeing their patterns, their beauty, and even their danger, with courage and compassion. And I will always be grateful for this first hour we spent, because it felt like opening the first page of a book I cannot wait to keep reading.

Strawberry Story (2009)

 

Strawberry Story (
SueSue

For the purpose of this story, I’ll use a pseudonym.

It was 2009, and I was supervising a small team of four in our office. Among them was E, a calm, kind, and beautiful social worker. Every day, I brought a large container of cut fruits and vegetables to work, mostly to keep myself from eating unhealthy snacks and also to share with my coworkers.

E loved strawberries and berries in general. She often brought some to share. Out of respect, she always offered them to me first, even though my desk was farther from hers. Then she would offer some to L, who sat by the window, strategically facing the boss’s office. L often said she had a plan for him.

One day, E and I found ourselves alone in the office. We began reflecting on the dynamics of our workplace. She confided in me, saying,
“L is selfish. She wants all the best things for herself. But you… you’re different. You even give me half of your cut fruit and veggies.”

She then told me something that I’ve never forgotten:
“I buy two boxes of strawberries. You see, L takes the biggest, best ones. She reaches into the basket and picks through it. She even told me once to buy the better kind. So, I go to Trader Joe’s to get organic ones, wash them carefully, and put the biggest, prettiest ones in a separate box just for her.”

Then she added,
“But with you, I don’t mind. I offer you strawberries from the second box, even if they’re smaller, maybe a little bruised, and you either politely decline or gently take the smallest one. I don’t feel used.”

At first, her words made me feel appreciated. But the story stayed with me. Later that evening, while driving home through the canyon—my usual 90-minute commute—I broke down in tears. I simply couldn’t help it. I was thinking that  I wish I would learn to pick the biggest and best strawberry.

I felt small. I felt that my humbleness had resulted in being overlooked or disrespected. It seemed like no one cared enough to give me the better one. Sometimes, we miss the best people who truly care about us, and we fail to take care of them in return.

Yes, unfortunately, we tend to give the best of ourselves and pay the most attention to someone who, as E said, is “hateful.”

Letting Go of the Need to Please: A Personal Reflection on Power and Self-Worth

  Letting Go of the Need to Please: A Personal Reflection on Power and Self-Worth

SueSue

For a long time, I’ve found myself stuck in a habit—one that I’m finally ready to name and change. I’ve been chasing approval from those in power. Whether it’s a boss, supervisor, or someone I admire, I’ve often gone out of my way to please them—sometimes without realizing the cost to myself.

I’ve noticed that I tend to say too many good things about others, especially those in leadership roles. I over-appreciate even the smallest gestures. If someone in power acknowledges me, gives me a little time, or helps me with something minor, I amplify it. I make it feel like they’ve moved mountains, even if they just nudged a pebble.

This behavior doesn’t come from insincerity—it comes from a place of wanting to be liked, seen, and valued. But I’ve begun to understand that constantly seeking validation, especially from those in different power positions, puts me in a vulnerable and often unhealthy dynamic. It skews the balance, blurs boundaries, and chips away at my self-respect.

Here’s what I’ve come to realize:

• Pleasing others doesn’t guarantee peace. It often leaves me emotionally exhausted and uncertain of my own worth.

• Overpraising reinforces a power imbalance. It makes me smaller while placing others on unnecessary pedestals.

• Validation is temporary. If it doesn’t come from within, no amount of praise or acknowledgment from others will be enough.

• Genuine connection doesn’t require over-efforting. Mutual respect, not exaggerated appreciation, is what builds lasting relationships—professional or otherwise.

This isn’t easy to admit. But growth often begins with honesty. I’m learning to:

• Pause before reacting.

• Acknowledge my own contributions without downplaying them.

• Say “thank you” without turning it into a speech.

• Compliment others without losing myself in the process.

I deserve to walk into a room and know that I am enough without having to prove it or perform for it.

This is my commitment to myself: I will stop chasing. I will stop over-praising. I will recognize the difference between respect and over-pleasing. And I will start showing up for myself the way I’ve always shown up for others.

My Quiet Refuge in a Noisy World: The Public, Yet Private Library

My Quiet Refuge in a Noisy World: The Public, Yet Private Library

By: SueSue

When life gets too loud, emotionally or literally, I find myself drawn to one place where stillness still lives, the library. Not just any library, but my neighborhood branch, quietly nestled among the busy streets. For years, it has been my refuge.

It’s a public space, yet it feels deeply private. A room full of strangers, yet it somehow feels like mine. The quiet isn’t total silence, but it's the kind that heals. Pages turning, keyboards clicking, soft footsteps passing by, it’s enough calm to think, to create, to breathe.

Inside, thousands of books wait patiently, holding stories bigger than our own. And while I may not speak to anyone, I never feel alone. There’s something comforting about being in a space where people come not to be seen or heard, but simply to be. We share an unspoken understanding, we’re all seeking something, focus, peace, relief, inspiration, or just a place to land.

I used to think I was the only one. That it was just me escaping the noise at home, the chaos of daily life, or the smallness of a crowded apartment. But on Sundays, when my local branch is closed and I visit the regional library, I see familiar faces. Others from my neighborhood, also seeking the same quiet comfort. Perhaps they too can't afford an office, or crave solitude without isolation. Perhaps they, like me, enjoy the presence of people without the pressure of conversation.

The truth is, during the pandemic, I realized just how deeply I depended on the library. While the world closed down, homes grew smaller. Families were suddenly together all the time, in the same rooms, day after day, with no space to escape or exhale. Tensions rose. Some fought. Some spiraled. And many, silently, began to fall apart. I think the library could have rescued so many, just by being open. Even without staff. Even if only one chair and one lamp were available.

I remember waking up each day during COVID with one wish, Please let the library be open.
Just the idea of stepping into that quiet room felt like salvation.
Even now, I catch myself thinking, I wish they were open 24/7.

Sadly, many of the independent bookstores that once offered reading nooks and quiet corners have shut their doors. Replaced by online orders, quick clicks, and instant downloads. I can only hope that the same fate never reaches our libraries.

Because for some of us, these spaces are more than public resources.
They’re places of calm, places of dignity, places where we find ourselves again.

So here’s to the library, our shared, silent sanctuary.
May the doors always stay open.

 

 

Lost & Found, While I Was Still Lost Myself

Lost & Found, While I Was Still Lost Myself

By : SueSue

During the second month of my work at a school, I was unexpectedly placed in charge of the Lost & Found, while I myself felt lost and was still trying to find my place.

The principal, having observed my humility (some might say too much humility), asked me to take over the entire Lost & Found system. She told me I could take items home to wash, bring them back, distribute them, keep them for emergencies, or even call each parent using our automated phone system. She said she had done this herself before, though I had my doubts. I had started just a month or two after her and had never seen her touch a lost jacket.

But instead of questioning the request, my default response kicked in,
"Sure, I’ll do it. We’re all here to help, right?"

So I took it on, the whole chaotic mess of it: jackets, sweaters, toys, water bottles, books, umbrellas, even pants. Piled high in bins, collecting dust, and half-molded from who-knows-when. I sorted it all into large black trash bags and carried them into the multipurpose room (MPR), determined to make something meaningful out of the mess.

I went from classroom to classroom collecting hangers and stands, bought more from the store with my own money, and spent hours after my shift organizing everything. I created posters and flyers, turned it into a “Parent Engagement Event,” took pictures, uploaded them to my highlight reports. I tried to make it look official, polished even. A "project" I could be proud of.

But it wasn’t my job. Not even close.

That week, I missed deadlines. My data was late. I had canceled plans, worked through breaks, and showed up early, all to create something that wasn’t even mine to carry. Parents barely took anything, and some were hesitant to be seen collecting “charity” for fear their children might be teased. One mother came and said the principal told her she could take several bags for a garage sale. I said yes, why not? Later, the principal turned around and accused her of lying.

Eventually, my supervisor called. Calm and respectful, but clearly frustrated.
"I admire your heart, but this is not your job. I need you to ask me next time before taking on something like this. And from now on, let’s keep your focus on what you were hired to do. If it’s not in the system, it’s not done."

He was right. I had taken it too far, not because I cared too much, but because I didn’t pause to ask whether it was mine to take care of.

At the next team meeting, I shared the event as a “highlight,” expecting smiles or support. Instead, there were strange looks. I realized then that I had made myself the punchline of a joke no one else found funny.

The principal later smiled and said, “Well, at least you got some exercise. It's good for your body. Gloves on, sweat a little, it’s healthy.”
That was supposed to be my reward.

And somehow, for the next four years, even when I was on site only once a week, Lost & Found became my job. Not in writing, not by title, not by pay. Just because I had said yes once.

One coworker, sarcastic, maybe cruel, maybe honest, joked, “You’re a loser. You’re lost. Someone needs to find you.” It stung, mostly because it rang true. I had tried to fix everything and ended up lost in the pile myself.

And that’s the lesson I carry now: when you're too quick to prove your worth through service, you risk being taken for granted, or worse, assigned to tasks that bury your purpose.

Sometimes, the hardest part of being found is learning to say no.

When Passion Meets… a One-Liner

When Passion Meets… a One-Liner

by SueSue

You know that feeling when you pour your heart into an email?

You write a carefully worded message to a prestigious institution—let’s say, UCLA. You include your greetings, you give thoughtful background about your work with vulnerable communities, highlight your doctoral degree, years of service, and passion for moving from a classified to a certificated role. You even sign it off politely with your contact info, hoping for guidance, maybe even encouragement.

And then…
they reply with one sentence.

No “Dear Dr. Fallah,”
No “Thank you for your interest,”
No “We appreciate your commitment to education and community wellness.”
Just a cold, corporate, copy-paste-sounding phrase. Like tossing a pebble into a canyon and hearing... nothing back.

I sat there staring at my screen, blinking. Did I accidentally email a vending machine?

Look—I get it. People are busy. Credentialing offices are overloaded. But when you're reaching out as a professional, a human being who deeply cares about their work and community impact, a one-liner reply feels more like a door slam than a welcome mat.

Still, I take it as a reminder: not all responses reflect your value. Sometimes your passion isn't mirrored back—but it’s still there. Still valid. Still powerful.

So I’ll keep writing passionate emails. I’ll keep seeking the right doors. And maybe next time, someone will reply with more than just a sentence—maybe even with heart.

Until then, I’ll just add this to my growing list of "emails that deserved better."